Construct A Couple

by Roland, Talli

  Kirsty shrugs. “Yup. Took me hours. Tim usually does it, but since he wasn’t here . . .” Her voice trails off and a downcast expression settles over her face.

  “When is he coming?” I gulp the wine, coughing as it hits the back of my throat. God, you’d think after all my earlier practice courtesy of British Airways, I’d have drinking down pat.

  “His notice period still has another couple weeks, although the last time we talked, he said he might try to get away sooner. Fingers crossed!” Her tone is bright but the look in her eyes doesn’t match. “Anyway. So, what about you? No word from Jeremy?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing since he sent me that text about heading to the Black Mountains. He said he’d be ‘off grid’, so I’m guessing that means his mobile doesn’t work up there. To be honest, though, I wouldn’t even know what to say if he did get in touch.” The familiar ice stabs my heart when I remember everything he kept from me and the distance between us.

  “Look,” Kirsty says softly, “any relationship has its ups and downs. But I really believe if you both want to be together, you’ll find a way. Try not to think about it too much right now. Just relax and give yourself a break.”

  I nod, swallowing hard to force back rising emotions. If only I could stop thinking about it.

  “What do you want to do this weekend?” I ask, hoping changing the subject will help tear my thoughts away. “We’ve got three days until I need to go back.”

  “Hmm. Well, I’ve been so busy unpacking and trying to settle Jane that I haven’t been able to get out much. First things first” – Kirsty throws a cheeky grin my way – “we need to hit the stores.”

  “The stores?” I raise an eyebrow. All I’ve seen around here is street after street of houses. If there are stores, somehow I can’t imagine my stylish friend rushing out to buy a pair of pedal-pushers and a lacy white blouse, or whatever’s en vogue with suburban moms these days.

  “Yup. Manhattan, baby!” Kirsty lifts her glass in the air, eyes sparkling in anticipation. “Bloomingdale’s . . . Saks . . . Barneys . . . you get the picture. God, it’s been ages since I’ve had a good shop! I think that’s what I need to settle back into the States: a dose of pure capitalism.”

  Although I can’t believe Kirsty hasn’t shopped for weeks (she is to shopping what Joan Collins is to Botox), it’s the first time I’ve seen her animated since I landed. And maybe this is what I need, too (not shopping, I’m worse than hopeless): somewhere new to explore; something to take my mind off Jeremy.

  “Okay.” Despite all the confusion churning inside, a tiny thread of excitement works its way into me. New York! City of cupcakes, bagels, yummy hot dogs (yes, it is possible) – why can I only think of food?

  “To New York,” I say, raising my glass to clink with Kirsty’s.

  If anything can distract me from the mess back in London, it’s got to be Manhattan.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I lift my head from the air mattress the next morning, momentarily confused as my brain tries to figure out where I am. Then my wine fog clears: I’m in Westport, miles from London, on the other side of the ocean. Squinting through the parted curtains, a brilliant blue sky hits my eyes. Yup, definitely not in London.

  My mouth stretches in a yawn, and I sit up gingerly. Between drinking almost all the wine in the house (a bottle and a half each, at least) and Jane’s endless crying, I didn’t get much sleep. How the hell has Kirsty been dealing with this on her own? No wonder she was swilling back the alcohol last night like she’d been in the Sahara for a year.

  Downstairs, I hear Kirsty and Jane moving around in the kitchen, Kirsty’s impatient tone pleading with Jane to sit still. Yikes – I’ve never heard my friend talk like that. It really is a good thing I’m here to provide some respite from just her and the baby.

  I head to the bathroom, nearly collapsing in gratitude as I spot a powerful, state-of-the-art shower nozzle. Yes! Fittings in London leave a lot to be desired, and the ‘shower’ in my bedsit is a medieval-looking handheld affair barely releasing a trickle.

  Climbing gratefully into the steam, the hot water washes away my hangover as movie images of New York flash through my head: The Empire State Building, Fifth Avenue, Times Square . . . To be honest, though, all I want is to walk the streets and absorb the feeling of the city, just like I did when I first moved to London. For me, the true spirit of a metropolis lies in those tucked-away shops and neighbourhoods tourists rarely visit, not the great hulking icons.

  It was Jeremy who showed me that, I think now, scrubbing my hair with Kirsty’s shampoo. Sadness pangs inside as I remember our first outing to Borough Market, and how excited he was to show me around. Since then, we must have travelled to every corner of London, from Epping Forest in the east to Hampton Court Palace in the west. Tears mix with the water trickling down my cheeks, and I push the memories from my head.

  Back in my room, I pull on jeans and my trusty black polo neck (it never needs ironing, and black is chic, right?), then pad down the heavy wooden stairs.

  “Morning!” I say, taking in Jane’s tear-streaked face and her mother’s frustrated one. Kirsty’s crouched in front of the high chair, trying to spoon a mushy mixture into the baby’s mouth. The two of them look more like General Custard’s Last Stand than mom and daughter.

  “Morning. Good sleep?” Kirsty shoots me a tight smile. “Sorry if Jane kept you up.”

  “I didn’t even hear her,” I fib. “Want me to try?” I gesture towards the tiny spoon in Kirsty’s hand. I’ve no idea how to feed a baby beyond the airplane method, but they obviously need a break from each other.

  “Could you? That would be fantastic. I’ll grab a quick shower, change, and get Jane ready. And then we’re outta here! Watch out, Manhattan.” A glimmer of excitement pushes its way through the tired mask of her face, and she races up the stairs.

  “Okay.” I turn to Jane, noting with chagrin she’s already pushed out her last mouthful of food so it’s covering her chin like a veggie-based beard. Not that I blame her – those mashed-up peas smell foul, although they’d go down a treat in Britain. I’ve never understood the attraction of the bright green, mushy peas accompanying the traditional Sunday roast. Yorkshire puddings, on the other hand . . . my stomach moans with hunger as I picture their buttery goodness.

  I scrape the mess from Jane’s wobbling chin, pulling ridiculous faces to keep her entertained as I load up with another glump of food.

  “Here we go!” I zoom the spoon into the baby’s open mouth before she even has a chance to react. She blinks at me in surprise, swallows, then I repeat the whole process until the jar is empty.

  A few minutes later, Kirsty reappears, damp hair pulled into a braid, and wearing her usual full make-up. Her motto is ‘never leave the house without cosmetics’, and I can vouch for her commitment. At university, whenever some joker yanked the fire alarm in the middle of the night, she always paused to put on make-up first.

  “Wow!” Kirsty stares at the empty bottle of baby food. “You’re a natural. I might have to keep you around a little longer.”

  “Beginner’s luck,” I respond, leaning back against the gleaming table. It must be, since I haven’t a clue what I’m doing.

  Kirsty scoops up Jane from the high chair, her expression grim again as the baby starts fussing. “Let me get this one dressed and we’ll be good to go. There’s some instant coffee on the counter. I’m afraid that’s all I have for breakfast at the moment, but we can grab a bite once we’re in the city.”

  I nod as she heads up the stairs, glancing at the large red clock on the wall. After eight here, and just past one in the UK. Before I can stop it, an image floats into my mind of Jeremy at the old Aga in the converted barn, stirring his special French-onion soup while melting massive blocks of cheese. I can almost smell the homely scent of the mixture as it fills the lofty space; see the smile on his face when he asks if I want more cheese (duh, yes!). A desire to be with him right now – to feel his w
arm arms around me – sweeps over me, and tears prick my eyes.

  I shake my head to clear the memory, as if my brain’s an Etch A Sketch. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t get rid of the lingering emotion tugging at my heart.

  A few hours later, Kirsty and I manoeuvre Jane’s stroller off the train and weave our way through the iconic Grand Central Station – every bit as gorgeous as I’d imagined. High ceilings make the building feel roomy despite the hundreds of people pushing past us, and I glance up to see a huge American flag. A man with a briefcase swears as he crashes into me, but even that doesn’t evoke my usual grimace. I’m in the Big Apple!

  Beside me, Kirsty’s grinning while Jane burbles away gleefully.

  “Where to first?” I ask.

  Kirsty pulls up the sleeve of her crimson coat, glancing at her watch. Although she’s slept less than me, she still manages to look funky and cool.

  “Well, it’s almost ten-thirty. Why don’t we head over to Fifth Avenue, take a stroll up and down the street” – she waggles her eyebrows, and I realise ‘stroll’ actually means shopping – “and then we can grab some lunch and decide what to do for the afternoon. Sound good?”

  I nod. “Sounds great.” Right now, I just want to get out and see the city.

  When we’re standing on the sidewalk, New York doesn’t let me down. Buildings tower over me, spearing the clear blue sky. The air is soft and spring-like, and even though it’s Good Friday, people scurry around us as if they’re on speed. The manic energy is worlds away from London’s restraint.

  “Now this is what I was missing!” Kirsty says, gulping pollution-scented air. “Come on, let’s get browsing.”

  For the next few hours, Jane snoozes miraculously in her stroller as Kirsty and I wander in and out of stores, marvelling at the bright floral patterns and eighties fluorescents clogging the windows.

  Although I’d rather pluck my overgrown eyebrows than spend more than an hour shopping, there’s something pleasantly mind-numbing about scanning shapes and sizes, accompanied by Kirsty’s running commentary on how I need a wardrobe upgrade. Sporting a hundred-dollar silk shirt like the one she’s pointing at won’t fix my relationship, though. Nor will the super-skinny coral jeans that make my legs resemble two stuffed sausages. I know it’s spring and all, but whoever invented pink jeans needs their head examined.

  I sigh, fingering a teal-blue wraparound dress. How could I have thought things were so easy? Roll the carpet over any relationship imperfections, and everything will be fine. Find a killer story, and that mega-promotion is around the corner. Now, I realise working hard at something – and facing up to inevitable bumps along the way – is the only sure-fire route to success. Shame it took the events of the past few weeks to reach that conclusion.

  Kirsty turns to face me. “I’m starving. Ready to eat?”

  “Yup.” I’m running on last night’s wine fumes, and if I don’t get some solid carbs down my throat, I’m going to collapse in an alcoholic puddle.

  Leaving behind the overpriced merchandise, we scan the busy street.

  “How about over there?” Kirsty asks, pointing to a café off the main drag.

  “Looks good.” Truth be told, I’d eat Jane’s mushy peas right now, that’s how hungry I am.

  We spot a couple leaving an outside table and swoop in, perching on the rickety metal chairs. Kirsty bends down to check on Jane.

  “She’s still out! Barely slept at all last night. Neither did I, for that matter.” Kirsty sighs, features sagging with fatigue. Grabbing the laminated menu from the table, her eyes light up. “They’ve got pastrami and rye! Oh my God, I would have killed for one of those in London.”

  A harassed-looking waiter bears down on us, pencil hovering over pad. “Yes?” he barks.

  God, we’ve barely sat down! I’d forgotten how swift service is here. In London, you practically become one with your chair before anyone notices you, let alone brings a menu.

  We both order pastrami and rye along with sparkling water (even I can’t face wine right now). I lean back in the chair, watching busy New Yorkers stride by as Kirsty feeds Jane.

  When the waiter reappears holding two heaving plates of pastrami and rye with a side of gherkins, I think I’ve died and gone to food heaven. The two of us are silent for the next few minutes as we chomp our way through the mammoth sandwiches. Finally, when I can’t cram in any more – pastrami’s about to come out my ears – I pat my food-baby belly contentedly. “That was so good. I hadn’t even realised I’d missed those sandwiches!”

  Kirsty takes another bite, nodding as she chews. “You know, it’s strange being back here. Not New York, but the States. After London, everything feels different.”

  “I felt exactly the same when I landed.” I glance at the honking yellow taxis jostling for position on the crowded streets, wondering if all this could ever seem normal, the way London’s black cabs and double-decker buses do now.

  A pensive expression slides over my friend’s face. “It’s funny, but being out here on my own has made me realise how much I rely on Tim. I mean, I can do everything myself if I have to – God knows I have been every day since arriving – but . . .” She shakes her head. “Just the fact he’s around to pick up the slack makes things so much easier.”

  “I can imagine,” I say, taking another bite of my pickle even though I’m about to explode. “But he’ll be here soon.”

  “Yeah.” Kirsty sighs. “Thank God. Apart from helping with Jane and all, things just aren’t right without him.”

  I nod. I know that feeling – ever since Jeremy left London, my world has been unsteady and off-kilter.

  “I thought once I had the house ready, I’d be okay. Then I thought seeing you would help. And it does,” she adds hastily, touching my arm. “Of course it does, but still . . .”

  Kirsty gazes at the busy street. “When all else fails, I can usually rely on shopping. But” – she laughs quietly – “I think I need to accept the only thing that’ll make me feel ‘normal’ is Tim. I’m a sap, I know.”

  I stare into her eyes, thinking how much she’s changed. A couple years ago, Kirsty would have been determined to prove she could do everything on her own for however long was required, never admitting she was tired or wobbly without Tim.

  “You’re not a sap at all!” I say. God, if she’s a sap, what would that make me – a massive vat of maple syrup? “You guys are such a great team, and you’ve been a couple for ages. Of course you miss him.”

  Kirsty nods. “He’s almost like an extension of me now, you know? Well, maybe a bit nicer,” she says, grinning.

  I swig my water, watching a Japanese tourist snap endless photos as Kirsty’s words scroll through my mind. She and Tim are a team, and it makes sense now why she’s seemed off since I arrived. The two of them have been together for so long I can’t picture one without the other, and seeing them with Jane – how they both change diapers, do feedings, and all the endless baby-care tasks I can’t even imagine – has only strengthened their bond.

  Are Jeremy and I a team, I wonder? I shake my head, knowing the answer’s obvious. Although I tried my best to protect him and stop that article, I didn’t do it with him. And Jeremy kept the charity’s troubles and the Julia stuff separate from me, too. We may love each other, but we definitely haven’t worked together on our relationship.

  Like Kirsty, I know I can do it on my own. I can go back to London, work hard at my job, and find a way to make the city mine, but I don’t want to. Being away from Jeremy – in a foreign environment so far from our mistakes – has let the ice inside recede, leaving behind a barren patch that throbs painfully when I think of him.

  I miss my boyfriend. I miss the reassuring, warm presence in my life; his strong arms encircling me at the end of the day; our easy-going banter. We’ve both made mistakes, but there’s still a lot in our relationship that’s good.

  “Ser?” Kirsty breaks into my thoughts. “What do you think about heading back to
Westport? I don’t know – I’m just not feeling the vibe here. Actually, it’s depressing me! Not to mention I haven’t bought anything. Total shopping fail.”

  I nod, thinking I couldn’t agree more. There’s something about the relentless energy of this place that, instead of lifting me up, is making me tired and drained. I could land on the moon and I’d still be missing Jeremy, I realise now. Manhattan didn’t stand a chance.

  “Let’s go.”

  An hour and a bit later, we’re in picture-perfect Westport. After the noise, grime, and chaos of the city, it seems even more idyllic. In a way, I can understand why Kirsty chose this town. It’s peaceful and homely; the ideal place for Jane to grow up.

  We pile into the car, and Kirsty navigates through the uniform neighbourhoods on our way home.

  “What the . . .” Her voice trails off as she catches sight of the house. Lights blaze from every window, and an unfamiliar grey car is parked in the drive. Kirsty quickly pulls in behind it then shuts off the engine.

  “Who the hell could that be? Stay here with Jane for a sec while I see what’s going on.” Before I can respond, she’s out of the car, tearing up the walkway.

  I scan the facade for any sign of movement, waiting for the door to burst open. It’s like a scene from a horror film, when the unsuspecting heroine strolls straight into an axe-wielding burglar. Right, if she doesn’t reappear in five minutes, I’ll . . . well, maybe I’ll give her ten.

  Just as we pass the five-minute mark, the front door opens and Kirsty dashes out, her face wreathed in smiles. Okay, so obviously not an axe-wielding burglar, then.

  “He’s here!” she trills.

  “Who’s here?” Santa? The Easter Bunny? Judging from my friend’s expression, it’s definitely someone just as exciting.

  “Tim!” Kirsty opens the back door and unclips Jane’s seat. “And not just for a visit, either. He’s going to work the rest of his notice period here.” Her face glows as she swings Jane from the car. “Come on, let’s go see Daddy!”